


Parley

by Sarra Manderly (TasarienOfCarasGaladhon)



Series: Aemon the Dragonwolf [5]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Dany is Queen of the South, Gen, Identity Reveal, Ignores S7 Spoilers, Independent North, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, Jon is King in the North, Mix of Show and Book Verse, time skip
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-23
Updated: 2016-09-29
Packaged: 2018-08-16 22:34:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8120104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TasarienOfCarasGaladhon/pseuds/Sarra%20Manderly
Summary: Daenerys Targaryen has taken King's Landing and crowned herself Queen (again). She turns her eyes to the rebellious North, where a bastard son of the Usurper's wolf rules the survivors of the brutal War of the Five Kings. There are rumors of worse, but she knows better than to believe them. Still, it's preferable to parley first, and bring them back into the fold without further bloodshed.King Jon Snow has battled the first White Walker assault. Now regrouping, he and his party receive an invitation from the Dragon Queen in the south, to meet outside the Twins for a parley. Jon has no intention of becoming another King Who Knelt, though he knows the White Walkers will return. Armed with the North's secret weapon and his newly-discovered identity, he takes his people south to meet with his aunt.





	1. Dany

**DANY**

 

The day was colder than the Twins had seen in many a year. The whistling wind made it very plain that winter had arrived, and it was not to be taken lightly. Nevertheless, Dany waited in her tent with Tyrion, Varys, Missandei, and Grey Worm, each wrapped in several layers of wool. The Hand of the Queen had advised against meeting inside, where the previous King in the North had been butchered against the sacred laws of hospitality.

 

“I don't know what possessed Aegon the Conqueror to add the North to his kingdom,” Tyrion said, wrapping his hands around a goblet of warm wine and shivering. “It's fair enough in the summer, but in winter? And the northerners are as suited to the unforgiving cold as they are _un_ suited to King's Landing,” he added, thinking of Eddard Stark's fate.

 

Dany raised an eyebrow at her Hand. “Why leave a neighboring kingdom unconquered when you have three dragons?”

 

“Indeed,” said Varys with a giggle.

 

“My queen, riders approach,” Grey Worm informed her, pulling back the tent flap. “Thirty riders on horseback, and a white wolf.”

 

“Of course, he brings Ghost!” Tyrion said cheerfully. “I'd forgotten about the direwolf pup. Sweet little fellow, much friendlier than his brother Grey Wind by all accounts; I'm glad he survived the hardships of the Wall.”

 

Grey Worm looked uncertainly at the imp. “This wolf is not small, Lord Tyrion. He is the size of a horse.”

 

“Well, I have not seen Ghost in years. I'm not surprised he grew to such a size,” Tyrion said amicably, setting down his wine. “I just hope he remembers me as a friend. I'd hate to be remembered as the Lannister who survived war and sea and deformity, only to die inside the belly of a wolf.”

 

“Let's go outside,” Daenerys ordered. She wrapped a thick woolen cloak, trimmed with fur, over her many layers of clothes and stepped into the harsh winter day.

 

The Northerners approached in two neat columns, looking gigantic in their thick winter raiment. Dany saw several sigils, though none as prominent as the running wolves. At the front of the column flew the sigil of House Stark, a running gray direwolf on a field of white, next to its twin, the white wolf on gray of a Stark bastard, though this one wore a crown. Behind them she saw a mailed fist, a bear, a lizard-lion, trees, and many others besides.

 

“Which one is Snow?” Dany asked Tyrion and Varys curiously. She'd heard much about the bastard of Winterfell, mostly from Tyrion. Since her arrival in Westeros, she had also heard that he had died and returned to life, only to slay the man who had kept his sister prisoner and reclaim his father's keep. There were rumors that he was a skinchanger, as well.

 

“Oh!” cried Varys. “The resemblance is unbelievable! He looks just like his father did, when he rode into King's Landing after the sack. No one could doubt his father was Ned Stark.”

 

“In more ways than one,” Tyrion agreed. “He rides just behind his banner, your grace,” he added for Dany's benefit. “Dressed in black, like a man of the Watch. Clearly, he has not used his new title to commission new clothes and feast himself to an early grave; I always knew he was a sensible fellow. His sister Sansa rides next to him, in the blue.”

 

“Your own lady wife, Lord Tyrion,” Varys said softly.

 

Tyrion winced. “Yes, the petrified child-bride I would not touch, until Baelish stole her away from King's Landing and married her to the Bolton bastard. I am her husband no more than I am yours, Varys.”

 

Missandei knew her job well. As soon as the northerners had dismounted, she approached to greet them in her politest tones.

 

“Your grace, my lords and ladies, I bid you welcome on behalf of Queen Daenerys Stormborn, the Unburnt, Queen of Meereen and the Seven Kingdoms, Queen of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Breaker of Shackles, and Mother of Dragons.”

 

“Bit of a mouthful, isn't it?” a simply-dressed knight commented, and the northerners laughed. Dany heard more Fleabottom than the North in the speaker's accent. “Thank you for the welcome, on behalf of Jon Snow, King in the North. What is your name, my lady?”

 

“This one is Missandei, my lord. Her Grace has had tents, hot baths, and food prepared for the use of your party. When you have refreshed yourselves, she will meet you for the parley.”

 

“Her Grace is very kind,” a young man told her seriously. He was dressed all in black, with a crowned white direwolf embroidered on his doublet. Jon Snow stood between his dark horse and a massive white beast that watched Missandei through red eyes, his living sigil. “We'll wash and eat, and meet the queen as soon as we are able.”

 

He took his sister's hand and led her into the three-roomed tent that had been prepared for them. The others scattered to the smaller tents, while servants unloaded the horses and led them to the stables. The direwolf, seemingly uninterested in eating Missandei, sat outside his master's tent and kept watch.

 

Missandei returned to her mistress.

 

“Well?” asked Dany from her chair.

 

“The Northerners say thank you for the kindness, and that they will join you for the parley as soon as they have changed and eaten, your grace.” For Tyrion's curiosity, she added, “the direwolf is keeping watch outside the king's tent.”

 

“Oh, I don't dare visit my old friend Ghost without Jon Snow present,” Tyrion admitted sadly. “He may not remember me, after all, and I am just the right size for his midday snack.”

 

“In that case, I suggest we have our own meal,” Varys offered. “It would not do to faint from hunger in front of the Northmen, your grace.”

 

“I agree,” said Dany, calling for the servants. The cooks at the Twins had been preparing some sort of thick Riverlands stew for hours, and the smell of it was mouthwatering. The bread that accompanied it was soft and heavenly with a pat of butter.

 

They ate quietly. Lord Tyrion, who was usually the loudest, was too deep in thought to jape. Varys, too, seemed to be plotting behind those secretive eyes, and Grey Worm had never been one for idle conversation. More than ever, Daenerys missed Jorah. She had seen the bear of his house among the northern sigils, and it broke her heart that her dearest friend would never return to the home he'd missed so much.

 

Thinking of Jorah was a mistake. Remembering him meant remembering his betrayal, and that brought to mind the treachery of her other advisers. It seemed Dany was destined to have subjects who betrayed her and each other constantly. Lady Olenna had once sought to pin a king's murder on Sansa Stark. Theon Greyjoy had stolen his foster-father's home from Stark's youngest sons, and betrayed the man he'd once called brother. Tyrion Lannister had murdered his own father. Varys had turned her father against his heir, whispering of plots until the already mad Aerys had lost all reason.

 

By necessity, Daenerys could trust no one, except Missandei and the Unsullied.

 

“What are you thinking of, your grace?” asked Tyrion, seeing the thunderclouds in her gaze.

 

“Trust,” she replied. “Betrayal. No one told me how lonely it would be to rule. How even my so-called allies would behave like snakes in the grass.”

 

“Would you have given up your birthright if you had known?” her Hand wondered.

 

Dany shook her head. “I am the last dragon,” she said sadly. “I never had a choice.”

 

“Well, if it makes you feel any better,” Tyrion offered, “the Starks and the Arryns are the noblest of the Great Houses. Unlike the Boltons, the Lannisters, or even your own house, who ruled by fear, the North follows the Starks out of unwavering loyalty. House Stark is known far and wide for being honorable; it's why they fare so poorly in King's Landing. Even Robb Stark lost the North to save a woman's honor after he bedded her. A man who does that has no chance against ruthless bastards like my father.”

 

“Indeed,” agreed Varys. “I once told Eddard Stark that seeing him and his downfall, I understood why there were so few honest men in the world. He argued for your life many times, your grace.”

 

“Oh?”

 

“When the Usurper wished to send assassins to kill you and Rhaego. He berated Robert Baratheon in front of the Small Council, saying that he had followed him into battle without question, but he would not follow in the murder of children. He gave up his badge for it and stormed out of the council room. Robert was furious.”

 

“Sounds like Ned Stark,” Tyrion muttered, taking a sip of wine.

 

“Lord Eddard was just as angry years earlier, when Lord Tywin presented Robert with the bodies of Rhaenys and Aegon,” the eunuch remembered, shuddering at the memory of the mangled children. “He would have executed Lord Lannister on the spot, had Robert and Jon Arryn allowed it. It was Clegane and Lorch that had done it, but we all knew under whose orders. Robert meant to name Stark to his council even then, but Stark was so angered by the butchery that he said not a word to Robert until they met in battle years later, when the Greyjoys rebelled.”

 

“We should all strive to be such paragons of northern virtue,” Tyrion japed. “House Stark had more cause than anyone to wish the Targaryens dead at the time, yet he was the only lord pleading for the lives of the young dragons. Robert called them _dragonspawn_ , and so did the rest of the kingdom, just to please him.”

 

Dany winced. She knew what her father had done to Brandon and Rickard Stark. It was obvious that Viserys had not, or he had chosen to ignore it. To her brother, all of the Usurper's dogs were the same. She had said as much to Ser Barristan once, parroting her dead brother's words.

 

“Is there anything else I ought to know about the noble Starks, before we meet?”

 

“Expect blunt honesty, and return it in kind,” advised her Hand. “Northerners won't trust you if you use big words that mean little. Do the opposite of what you would do in King's Landing. Flattery will get you nowhere with them. The Jon Snow I remember was a suspicious fellow, and after all she's suffered, Sansa will be the same.”

 

“I've taken the liberty of preparing something,” Varys offered. “The Freys threw Robb Stark's body into a shallow grave, after desecrating it. I've had his bones and his direwolf's bones dug up and prepared for burial. Laying their brother's body to rest in the Winterfell crypts will be an excellent start to the alliance.”

 

“Good, good,” Tyrion approved. “I once did the same for his father's bones. I don't suppose you found Lady Catelyn's remains in your search?”

 

“Alas, I did not,” Varys admitted. “The Freys threw her corpse in the river. Who knows where she rests?”

 

At that moment, a man cleared his throat outside.

 

“Come,” said Dany.

 

In popped a skinny boy wearing purple and white under thick furs.

 

“Pod!” cried Tyrion, full of enough wine to be jovial again. “Good to see you again!”

 

“And you, my lord,” he answered, wide-eyed.

 

“Your grace, this is young Podrick Payne. He was my squire once; he even saved my life!”

 

“Y—your g—g—grace,” the poor squire stammered, bowing and blushing bright red. Dany's beauty had that effect on boys braver and more eloquent than Pod.

 

“What are you doing with the northerners?” asked Varys, confused.

 

“Not them, my lord,” Podrick answered. “I've been riding with Lady Brienne; she was searching for Lady Sansa and I thought if we worked together, we might find my lord Tyrion. And then I helped her rescue the lady and take back Winterfell. My lady is in the Wintersguard now.”

 

“Enlighten us, young squire: what is the Wintersguard?” asked Tyrion, though Dany was sure he could hazard a guess.

 

“It is the guard of the King in the North and his family. There are twelve of them, but only seven came here with the king and Lady Sansa. The other five stayed in Winterfell with Lord Bran and Lady Arya.”

 

“Bran Stark is alive?” asked Varys, echoing the surprise that Dany and Tyrion felt. Though Theon Greyjoy had sworn that Bran and Rickon had not died by his hand, it would have been tremendously difficult to hide the crippled boy from all of his enemies. In addition, Jon Snow being King in the North when his legitimate brother was alive made things confusing.

 

“Yes, my lord. He'd gone north of the Wall after his home was taken, with a pair of crannogmen and a huge, simple man that carried him about.”

 

“Hodor,” murmured Tyrion. Dany recalled that he'd been to Winterfell at least twice, though she was surprised he would remember the name of a manservant.

 

“Did you have a message for us, Podrick, or did you come for the pleasure of Lord Tyrion's company?” asked Varys delicately.

 

Pod blushed again. “Apologies, my lords, your grace. His grace says he and his party are ready to meet with you in the command tent.”

 

“Excellent,” said Tyrion, leaping off his chair. “Come, your grace, let us greet our friends.”

 

He clapped one of Pod's arms—being too short to reach his shoulders—and they left the tent, chatting quietly.

 

Dany followed, leaving Missandei, Grey Worm, and Varys to pick up their cloaks and exit in her wake. Across from her tents, she saw the northerners leaving theirs, with serious faces and little conversation. An enormous wolf trotted behind his master.

 

Finally, they were within speaking distance. Jon Snow, the King in the North, had dressed the part. He wore the heavy white pelt of some northern beast, over a dark gray cloak. An ancient crown of bronze and iron rested on his dark hair, covered with the strange runes of the First Men. She'd seen it before, Dany realized. Once upon a time, she'd seen a vision of a man with a wolf's head at a feast, wearing this very crown. She now knew it to be Robb Stark.

 

“King Jon Snow, you look very fetching in a crown,” japed Tyrion, greeting the King in the North like an old friend. To his delight, Ghost the direwolf nudged the imp with his gigantic head, and then licked him joyfully. “Ah, so you _do_ remember me, pup! Gods, I'd no idea you could grow so much!”

 

“Even I'm surprised by it, and I see him every day,” Jon admitted, smiling down at his friend. It was a lovely smile. “It's good to see you, Lord Lannister. You've gained some battle scars since I saw you last.”

 

Tyrion winced. “A reminder of the Battle of Blackwater. I've heard rumors of your death and resurrection, Jon Snow, but you look very well for a dead man.”

 

Dany caught an expression of anguish in those dark grey eyes, before the king said “My scars are less visible than yours, but I have them all the same. Mayhaps I'll show them to you later.”

 

Tyrion accepted that bizarre reply with a nod. “And Lady Sansa, you've grown even more beautiful.”

 

Sansa gave them a polite curtsey. “Your grace, Lord Tyrion, Lord Varys.”

 

“This is our Wintersguard,” Jon said, pointing out seven men and women in gray cloaks and matching dark leathers. A crowned direwolf head adorned their doublets. “I present Tormund Giantsbane of the Free Folk, Lady Brienne of Tarth, Suregg Blackspear of the Free Folk, Geisa of the Free Folk, Lord Hugo Wull, Young Artos of Clan Norrey, and Dorren of House Blackmyre. We northerners cannot trust in the laws of hospitality alone these days. I hope you will understand; I will not risk Princess Sansa's life for any parley, treacherous or true.”

 

“We understand,” said Dany tightly. It would have been easy to take offense, but Tyrion had warned her that the Starks would be blunt and suspicious of southrons, especially after the atrocity of the Red Wedding. They had no reason to trust her yet, though she hoped to change that.

 

“With me I have Lord Tyrion Lannister, Hand of the Queen,” Dany introduced, “as well as Lord Varys, Master of Whispers. Missandei you know; she is my interpreter and scribe, and Grey Worm is the commander of my Unsullied. The rest of my council remains in King's Landing, to look after it while I'm gone.”

 

She could see Jon Snow and Grey Worm sizing each other up, commander to commander.

 

“I've brought some lords and ladies of _my_ council,” the dark-haired king introduced. “This is Lord Howland Reed, and Lord Davos Seaworth, my Hand. I've also brought lords Manderly, Flint, Cerwyn, Norrey, and Glover, and ladies Eddara Tallhart of Torrhen's Square and Lyanna Mormont of Bear Island.”

 

Dany couldn't help but gasp at the last name. The little girl did not resemble Jorah much, but Dany felt his absence all the more keenly.

 

“I see you have taken care to represent all of the North, your grace,” Varys said politely, looking at the odd assortment of characters in the Wintersguard and the council. “Not many would have chosen crannogmen, mountain clansmen, and wildlings alongside lords and ladies, let alone a smuggler-knight from the south.”

 

“I know it, and so do they,” Jon replied simply. “That is why they follow me.”

 

“The King in the North!” cried Lady Mormont with a grin.

 

“The King in the North!” roared the entire Northern delegation, including Davos Seaworth and Lady Brienne. Jon Snow ducked his head, while Lady Sansa hid a smile.

 

Loyalty.

 

It was one thing to hear Tyrion wax poetic about the Starks. It was another to see it in action. By including voices that would normally be silenced, Jon Snow, the Bastard of Winterfell, had made himself a king to respect. And her advisers said the Starks were poor politicians!

 

“Shall we?” Tyrion offered, gesturing towards the tent. “It's far too cold out here for my delicate Westerlands constitution.”

 

“You might ask Ghost to sit by your side,” Lady Sansa offered, smiling. “He's warm as a smith's forge and would sleep at your feet like a pup.”

 

Slowly, the lords and ladies (and direwolf) filed into the large tent. Braziers had been lit for warmth, though there were so many people that they were hardly necessary. Daenerys and Jon sat across from each other, with Sansa on Jon's right and Davos on his left. Dany had Tyrion on her right and Varys on her left. Ghost lay in the center of the circle, the only space large enough for him.

 

“On behalf of the Iron Throne, I would begin with a gesture of goodwill,” said Dany. “I know of the horrors that have befallen House Stark under the Baratheons and Lannisters, and I would give you this,” she explained, pointing to two gleaming wooden chests. “It cannot bring back the dead, but I hope it may give you peace to lay your brother to rest in the North, along with his direwolf.”

 

Sansa gasped, and Jon looked at the boxes with dawning comprehension.

 

“You found King Robb's bones?” boomed Lord Manderly.

 

“We recovered them from the Freys,” Varys said. “It took some doing to convince them.”

 

“Thank you,” Jon Snow said finally, meeting Dany's gaze with his own. “It means a great deal to us; Robb belongs in the crypts next to his father and Rickon.”

 

Lady Sansa opened her mouth, then shut it. Surely she meant to ask about her mother's bones, but the lack of a third box was her answer.

 

“Now,” said Lord Tyrion, “on to business. Queen Daenerys has taken the Iron Throne, and defeated my sister and her friends. Dorne and the Reach stand with her. Baelish promises us the Vale, but we know better than to trust him. After all, he promised Cersei your head,” he told Sansa, “and then married you to Ramsay Bolton, only to betray the Boltons. Littlefinger serves only Littlefinger.”

 

“We know it,” Sansa said shortly. “He also pledged the Vale to Jon, so you see what his words are worth.”

 

“And what of the North?” asked Lord Varys. “You don't have the men to carry on fighting, and we do not wish to fight a needless war. May we not reunite the kingdoms peacefully?”

 

“We _must_ carry on fighting,” Jon told them simply. “While the South tore itself apart, the North united to face a threat from beyond the Wall. Lord Commander Mormont and I both sent ravens south, pleading for help, several times. Only Stannis Baratheon answered, and in the end, he too left us to die for the Iron Throne. We've defeated the first attack, but more will come. Now the Dead are coming again, and if we fall, so will you.”

 

A pregnant pause fell over the meeting.

 

“Do you mean to tell us,” asked Tyrion slowly, “that the Others are real, Jon Snow?”

 

The northerners erupted at this, shouting over each other. The wildlings looked angriest, crying that the Dead had killed their kin and driven them south.

 

Jon Snow turned to one of his Wintersguard, the wild-looking Giantsbane, and nodded. The guard left the tent without a word.

 

“While Tormund fetches the proof, we'll tell you what we know,” said the king. “The Others create thralls, known as wights, when they kill living men. They wake with glowing blue eyes, and appear to keep at least some of their memories. One of the Night's Watch was brought back a wight, and tried to kill Lord Commander Mormont,” Snow recalled, “and the wight knew exactly where to find the Old Bear. They don't speak, and they can keep dormant for ages, but in the end, they must be burned or they will kill anyone they can reach.”

 

Daenerys felt a cold fist of fear wrap itself around her heart. She'd dreamed of this, she knew it. A long time ago, on a ship, she'd had a dream of an army with ice for armor. She'd been her brother Rhaegar in the dream, but she had defeated the ice warriors with dragonfire. She also remembered the king who cast no shadow, with his eerie, pale blue eyes; a vision she'd seen in the House of the Undying.

 

“How interesting,” said Lord Varys, “that just as Queen Daenerys arrives with three fire-breathing dragons, the North has need of fire. One might say...providential.”

 

“If you think we speak falsely,” Lord Norrey said coldly, “wait and see.”

 

“Oh no, I would not dare,” the eunuch answered, flinching nervously.

 

“Even if we accept that wights are real, and the queen sends her dragons north to burn them all to a crisp,” Tyrion offered, “more would rise for every man lost. We must get to the heart of the matter—the Others that create the wights.”

 

“We know,” said the northern king. “We just don't have the weapons. Only two things are known to kill a White Walker; one is so rare that your family had to steal my father's sword to get it, and the other is far to the south.”

 

“Valyrian steel?” Tyrion asked, probably remembering his eldest nephew.

 

“That, or dragonglass. Obsidian, as the maesters would call it. Sam killed a White Walker with a dragonglass dagger we found north of the Wall. It shattered the Other into pieces.”

 

“Who is this Sam? Would he not be useful at this council?” asked Dany.

 

“Samwell Tarly, your grace. Son of Randyll Tarly of Horn Hill. He's a man of the Watch, but I sent him to Oldtown to replace Maester Aemon in time.”

 

An odd look crossed Snow's face as he mentioned the maester.

 

“Aemon Targaryen, your grace,” Varys explained for Dany's benefit. “Brother to King Aegon the Fifth, your own great-grandfather.”

 

“He is dead, then?” asked Tyrion. He'd liked the old maester; perhaps it was his blindness, but Aemon had never treated Tyrion as less than a man.

 

Jon nodded soberly. “His watch is ended. He spoke of you often, your grace, and a prophecy that he thought you might fulfill,” he told Daenerys. “He wished he could have met you, and helped you in some way. But he was more than a hundred years old, and blind, and sworn to the Watch for life.”

 

Dany smiled sadly. “It would have been sweet to meet another Targaryen.”

 

She had not imagined it. The strange look returned to Jon Snow's face, and now Lord Reed shared it. Before she could ask him about it, the man Tormund returned to the tent. Behind him came two other men with a large metal cage on wheels.

 

Inside the cage was a woman's corpse, hideous with decay and congealed black blood. Yet the corpse moved, pulling desperately at the steel bars on the cage. To her horror, Dany saw the icy blue eyes of her nightmares, filled with malice. Ghost stood up immediately, baring his teeth at the monster but making no sound.

 

“We tried sending just a hand to King's Landing,” the King in the North explained, “but it rotted too fast. Ser Alliser convinced no one, and that made him even more of a pain in the arse than usual when he returned.”

 

Unless she was mistaken, Snow had just thrown a dirty look at Lord Tyrion, who winced guiltily. He stared at the thrashing wight in horrified fascination, but said nothing to defend himself.

 

Ser Davos lit a torch using one of the braziers, and handed it to Dany.

 

“Would you care to do the honors, your grace?” he asked in his Fleabottom accent. “They feel no pain, but they become even angrier when they burn.”

 

Trembling, Dany took the torch and thrust it through the bars of the cage. The wight flailed, but was helpless to stop the blaze. The fire consumed it slowly, first the ragged remains of its clothes, and then the body. Grey Worm watched carefully; she was sure he'd be telling his Unsullied about this as soon as he left the tent.

 

“Now you five know the truth,” Lady Sansa said. “The South believes that wights and White Walkers are naught but northern old wives' tales. If we're to be allies, you must convince them otherwise. They may think it a northern problem, but if the Wall is overrun, and our people die fighting the Others, it will be the Riverlands next, and the Vale, and the Westerlands, and the Crownlands. You have no Wall to keep them out, and no Night's Watch to guard it. Every man, woman, and child who died in the War of the Five Kings will rise as a wight.”

 

“That's more than enough incentive for me,” Tyrion answered, shuddering. “There are some men I'd rather not see returned to life. They were monstrous enough the first time.”

 

“We need to bring proof to King's Landing,” Daenerys said uncomfortably. “If I tell the Small Council what I've seen, I'll become the Mad Queen, even with Lord Tyrion and Lord Varys supporting me. No lord will send his army so far to the north, in winter, without proof.”

 

“We know it,” responded Lord Cerwyn. “That is why we brought three of them with us. The other two are for you to take south, and we packed them in ice so they would keep longer.”

 

Dany felt no small measure of relief. “That was a solid plan, my lords.”

 

“That was King Jon's plan,” boasted little Lady Mormont. “He captured wights at the Wall and kept them in ice cells, so they might be studied. Unfortunately, Castle Black and Winterfell have lost their maesters.”

 

“We'll take one to King's Landing, and send the other to Oldtown,” offered Lord Varys. “The maesters have been denying the existence of magic for years. I'd love to see what they make of this.”

 

“Stuffy old goats,” mumbled Tyrion, then looked at Snow's serious face and checked himself. “Apologies. The maester I'm most familiar with is Pycelle, lecher and Lannister stooge that he was.”

 

“I remember Pycelle,” Lady Sansa admitted with a grimace. “I don't blame you, my lord.”

 

“And I've heard his name,” Dany offered, her tone flinty. “He was the Grand Maester in my father's day, the one who convinced King Aerys to open the gates to the Lannisters for a sacking. None here will mourn him.”

 

“Well, on to business, then,” Lord Tyrion said, returning to his seat. The King in the North motioned for the servants to remove the burning wight in the cage, and it was done silently, though the odor of cooking meat remained. Ghost the direwolf now lay with his head next to the dwarf, who petted him absently.

 

“Yes, let us discuss the terms of an alliance,” Dany suggested. “What does the North want of us?”

 

“Dragonglass and all of the Valyrian steel you can spare, to fight the Others,” answered King Jon. “Fire would be a boon, though I can't say if your dragons would like the cold north of the Wall. Men to man the Wall, as many as you can send. They needn't take the vow, just fight when the time comes. Food to give them, so we don't starve our own people to feed the newcomers.”

 

Reasonable requests, all. Dany knew that none of her Small Council would have worded a request for men and gold so bluntly, but then, this was the North, and the situation was dire.

 

“And in return?” asked Lord Varys mildly.

 

“In return, you don't turn into wights,” Lord Glover said simply.

 

“If we hold the Wall, your children will never become monsters,” Tormund Giantsbane added, grief coloring his tone.

 

“We will be the shield that guards the realms of Men,” Jon Snow finished, his mouth twitching upward. “Your realm, and ours.”

 

“It is an unorthodox exchange,” Lord Varys objected mildly. “The usual arrangement is for a marriage of some kind.”

 

“Yes, and that worked so well for Edmure Tully, or Margaery Tyrell,” Wylis Manderly cried angrily.

 

“Lady Sansa has already been sold to two husbands against her will,” King Jon objected, his tone cold as ice. “One was more mad dog than man. If Petyr Baelish had his way, there would have been a third forced wedding. I'll not give away my family as hostages by another name.”

 

“It is the way of the world, your grace,” Varys protested.

 

“Not our world,” Jon Snow said finally, squeezing his sister's hand. Dany had to admire his devotion to his family, even if she disliked the outcome. “Not anymore.”

 

“What of yourself?” asked Daenerys curiously. “You are a king chosen by your people, but you have no wife or child.”

 

“I was Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, and then the bastard commander of the northern armies. I've had little time for courtship,” the northerner replied. He blinked, and Dany saw realization dawning in his dark gray gaze. “You would offer yourself as a bride, your grace?”

 

“I would,” answered Dany. Never had she met a more reluctant bridegroom! “What could be better? You are the King in the North, and unwed. I am the Queen in the South, a widow. Together, we could unite House Stark and House Targaryen, and reunite the Seven Kingdoms once more, without bloodshed.”

 

The northerners looked uncomfortable. A few shifted in their seats.

 

“It is a generous offer, but I'm afraid it would not suffice, your grace,” Jon Snow said finally. Dany saw his sister squeeze his hand, this time, lending him courage as the bastard king defied her.

 

“Why not?” asked Daenerys, feeling offended. She was no hag, and she brought with her the might of the South! What right did this usurper's bastard, king of wildlings and wolves, have to refuse _her_?

 

“First, because I am a Northerner, and we are not made for the southron court. I would do you no credit as a consort there.” The King in the North closed his eyes, and exhaled slowly. “And second, because a marriage between us would not join a Stark to a Targaryen. It would unite two Targaryens.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had an idea and couldn't shake it until it was written. The original included an ice dragon, but then I realized that the North doesn't need one. They have a way to defend themselves...stay tuned if you don't know what it might be.
> 
> Phew. First ASOIAF fanfic!


	2. Jon

** JON **

 

There was a long silence.

 

Jon saw Queen Daenerys watching his council carefully. It was obvious that they had known all along, and only her own party was wrong-footed.

 

“Jon Snow, Bastard of Winterfell, a Targaryen?” Tyrion exploded. “I sure hope you can explain yourself, Snow.”

 

“I can,” he replied. “You all know me as the bastard son of Eddard Stark and a nameless woman; perhaps Wylla the Dornish wet-nurse, perhaps Ashara Dayne. None of those stories were true, after all.”

 

He sighed. “I asked my father to tell me of my mother since I was old enough to know she was not Lady Catelyn. He would not tell me, no matter how much I begged. He always said he would when I was older, and that day never came. He left for King's Landing, I left for the Wall, and I never saw him again.”

 

Jon's fists clenched on his lap. He could feel Sansa's sympathetic gaze, and knew his council still simmered with anger at the thought of Eddard Stark's imprisonment and execution.

 

“It wasn't until after my coronation that I found out,” Jon went on. “Lord Reed came from the Neck with a story and a wooden chest, and we've brought both here. You see, my father did not hide my mother's name out of shame. He hid it because I had a brother and a sister once, and both were murdered as children in the name of the king. Eddard Stark claimed me as his bastard to spare me that fate.”

 

The southerners were listening intently, but Jon could tell that Daenerys and Tyrion had not grasped what he was saying. Lord Varys, however, seemed to be working out a puzzle.

 

“My father wished to kill you as a babe?” the silver-haired queen asked in a small voice.

 

“No, your grace,” replied Jon. “He killed my grandfather and Uncle Brandon, but King Aerys never knew of my birth. It was Robert Baratheon that wanted us all dead.”

 

“So your mother was a loyalist?” Tyrion asked, frowning. “A Dornishwoman, perhaps, descendant of the first Daenerys Targaryen? Or are you the Mad King's bastard, fathered on one of Queen Rhaella's Northern ladies?”

 

Howland approached the king's seat with the aforementioned chest, and set it down at his feet.

 

“Not exactly,” answered Jon. “Inside this chest is the cloak my birth father placed around my mother's shoulders on their wedding day, on the Isle of Faces.”

 

He opened the chest, and drew forth a black cloak. As he unfolded it, embroidered red dragons came into view, now faded with age, with brilliant black gems for eyes and red gems on their backs. A golden band across the hem marked it as the cloak of the Prince of Dragonstone, heir to the Iron Throne.

 

“Rhaegar Targaryen,” breathed the dwarf, his eyes wide as he looked at Jon. “You are Lyanna Stark's son?”

 

“Many suspected that the abduction story was an attempt by the Starks and Baratheons to save face, back then, myself included,” Lord Varys said finally, “but no one ever imagined that Ned Stark's one lapse in honor was, in fact, his beloved sister's child, and a trueborn prince at that!”

 

“The dragon must have three heads,” Jon quoted, and he saw Daenerys' eyes widen. “I don't know what that means, exactly, but there are letters in here, from Prince Rhaegar to his Kingsguard and from others to Rhaegar. He wanted a third child, and Princess Elia could not give him one. I was to be the third head, the Visenya to his Aegon and Rhaenys. Only my father, Aegon, and Rhaenys were all dead before I was born.”

 

Under the shocked gaze of Queen Daenerys and her men, Jon reached into the chest once more, and removed a beautiful silver harp.

 

“That's Prince Rhaegar's harp,” Varys murmured. “I saw it often enough.”

 

“He left it in the Tower of Joy,” Lord Reed said quietly. “When we reached the tower, King Aerys, Prince Rhaegar, and Prince Aegon were already dead, making Jon the last surviving heir. The Kingsguard refused to give him up, so they died there, and so did the Princess Lyanna, of childbed fever. Ned and I took or burned anything that could reveal Jon's identity, and had the tower torn down. His true name, your grace,” he said to the queen, “is Prince Aemon Targaryen.”

 

“My nephew,” the queen said, looking thunderstruck. Before Jon could react, she had left her seat and was far too close to his person, peering intently at his face. As she did so, Varys and Tyrion moved to the chest of old letters and studied them carefully.

 

“You have Rhaegar's nose,” the Silver Queen said finally, incredulously. “I saw him in a vision once, in the House of the Undying. He was with Aegon and Elia, playing that very harp, but he looked so sad. You have his eyes as well, though not the color.”

 

“You say you were already King in the North when Lord Reed told you this,” Tyrion Lannister said, “but your lords and ladies are not surprised by your Targaryen heritage. I suppose you did the noble Stark thing and confessed all?”

 

“Of course I did,” Jon said hotly. “I was chosen because they believed me to be Ned Stark's son. It was never my intention to steal Bran's rightful place, nor Sansa's. I tried to abdicate as soon as I found out I was not his son, but Lyanna's.”

 

“He had the chance to take his cousins' birthright,” Davos told them. “When Stannis Baratheon went to the Wall, he offered many times to legitimize Jon Snow and make him Lord of Winterfell. He would not accept, not while there were trueborn Starks in the world.”

 

“And not while Stannis Baratheon meant to feed our weirwoods to the Red Woman's fires,” Jon muttered, earning approving nods from the lords around him.

 

“None of us were keen to kneel to a dragon again,” Lord Wull of the Wintersguard added, “but if we must have a dragon, let it be Jon Snow, the White Wolf of Winterfell, raised as a Northman. T'was Rhaegar who sired him, but his father was Ned Stark, sure enough. Even the Young Wolf wished to make him his heir, when the Ned's girls were lost to us, and Greyjoy had taken the younger boys.”

 

“Lord Bran is back in Winterfell,” Lord Cerwyn explained, “though we do not think he'll ever sire children, after his fall. He has given up his claim in favor of Princess Sansa, our Lady of Winterfell. And King Jon's Stark blood is no less important than his Targaryen blood. He is our chosen King in the North, and the only king in Westeros with a clue when it comes to the Others up North. His cousins all support him, as well.”

 

“We do indeed,” Sansa said brightly, taking Jon's hand again. “Cousin Jon would fare horribly in the southron court, but the North needs a different sort of king, and he is that.”

 

“This is why I cannot marry you, your grace,” Jon added. “The wedding between a Stark and a Targaryen already happened, with me as the result. I am your brother's son, and you would lose the chance to make an alliance with another house if you married me.”

 

Lord Tyrion snorted. “That never stopped the Targaryens before,” he said.

 

“You do remember Joffrey, do you not, Lord Tyrion?” Jon reminded him, raising his eyebrows.

 

“Yes, our second Mad King, child of incest between my whore sister and Jaime,” the imp acknowledged. “Very well, you've made your point. I suppose Her Grace could marry Willas Tyrell, or the Dayne boy; there must be a suitable man _somewhere_ that is not related to her.”

 

“I always believed Viserys and I were the last,” Daenerys said slowly. “But if you are Rhaegar's trueborn son, you have even more of a claim to the throne than I do, Aemon.”

 

“He tells it true,” said a subdued Varys, looking up from the letters. “Prince Rhaegar wrote this letter to Lord Commander Hightower before he left for the Trident, ordering the Kingsguard to protect _his wife_ , the Princess Lyanna, and their unborn child. This is his own handwriting, and the seal of the Prince of Dragonstone.”

 

“And look at this one,” added Tyrion, selecting a short, faded scroll and reading aloud. “ _Please inform Her Grace the Queen Mother that Lyanna, Princess of Dragonstone, has this day given birth to a prince of the blood. Following the deaths of his father and brother at the hands of the Usurper, Aemon Targaryen is, by right, the heir to the Iron Throne. We fear for the safety of mother and child, as the birth was difficult and the Princess is in distress, with no maester to see to her pains. The babe is small but healthy. Please advise_. Signed, Ser Oswell Whent.” He paused. “He never sent this. I suppose the tower didn't have ravens, and they had to wait for couriers by land.”

 

Jon swallowed hard. He'd lived years knowing nothing of his mother. Knowing that she had loved him until her death hardly made up for knowing he had killed her. She had been in that tower for months, receiving no news except of death—her father, her brother, her husband—and knowing that the babe she carried would be hunted to the ends of the earth.

 

“It's true, then,” his aunt agreed, looking at him with a mix of awe and pity. “You are the rightful heir of House Targaryen.”

 

“I don't want the Iron Throne,” Jon said firmly. “The North is more than enough for me, and the South is yours by right of conquest. I'd never even traveled south of Castle Cerwyn until this trip.”

 

“Nevertheless, unless I have a son, I will make you my heir, and name you Prince of Dragonstone,” the queen said, immovable. “You are a dragon, though you may reject our stranger customs,” she said, his reaction to aunt-nephew incest noted.

 

Jon was uncomfortable with this, but he preferred it to dying in a blaze of dragonfire, or declaring war against his aunt. “Then I wish you a joyful marriage and many, many children.”

 

Varys raised an eyebrow. “You have spent too much time with Aemon Targaryen, your grace,” he told him. “No Targaryen has ever been so opposed to the idea of taking the throne. I suppose your name is as fitting as a prince's can be,” he mused. “We've never had a King Aemon on the Iron Throne; only a Dragonknight, a Maester, and now a Lord Commander of the Night's Watch and King of Winter.”

 

Suddenly, Lord Tyrion let out a long, loud bark of laughter.

 

“Oh, this is the greatest jest in the Seven Kingdoms!” he cried, still laughing. “All this time, we've been poking fun at stiff old Ned Stark, who was so honorable until he wasn't, siring a bastard and taking him home for his long-suffering wife to raise. Eddard Stark, the man who always told the absolute truth, no matter how dangerous. And all this time, honorable Ned was committing treason, hiding the true heir to the throne from his good friend Robert! Well played, Lord Stark, well played indeed!”

 

“That is my uncle you're speaking of,” Jon said coldly, suddenly wanting to hit the dwarf. “The uncle who sacrificed his own honor to save my life, and then did it again to save Sansa's from you Lannisters.”

 

“Oh, I mean no disrespect,” the imp said, startled. “Quite the contrary. My esteem for Ned Stark has only risen.”

 

“It does explain why Eddard Stark was so eager to protect young Targaryens; nevertheless, let us return to our terms,” Queen Daenerys suggested tactfully. “In light of King Aemon's revelation, I will not ask for a betrothal at this time. Marrying a Targaryen to another Targaryen is a time-honored tradition, but would form no new alliances, since we kin and allied by blood. However, in exchange for the men and supplies we shall send north, I would name King Aemon Targaryen, known as Jon Snow, as my heir.”

 

Jon winced. He would never get used to that name.

 

“Should I have children of my own, perhaps we may consider a marriage in time, between my nephew's children and mine. That should be distant enough kinship for Aemon's northern sensibilities.”

 

The King in the North frowned. Daenerys made it sound like not marrying sibling to sibling or aunt to nephew was a quaint northern objection, and not a careful avoidance of the madness that had plagued their family. Then again, she'd been raised in exile by a mad brother, if the rumors were true. Her upbringing must have been very strange.

 

“However, if I bear no children, and if Aemon sires more than one son, the second son will come south to me at the age of ten, and I will give him my— _our—_ name and make him my heir. If he sires just one, the boy will inherit both kingdoms.”

 

“What if I only sire daughters?” Jon asked, remembering Maester Luwin's lessons on the Dance of Dragons.

 

“I know not how the North handles daughters, but it will make little difference to me. Your daughters will be Rhaegar's granddaughters; dragon blood and wolf blood will run through their veins. I will gladly make a daughter of yours my heir, and anyone who threatens war can pay a visit to my dragons.”

 

Daenerys sighed. “This would be so much easier if you bent the knee and married me, nephew. I _do_ have three dragons at my disposal, and I will get my way in the end.”

 

The two wildlings in the Wintersguard let out a burst of hooting laughter.

 

“The kneeler queen is going to steal you, King Crow,” Tormund gasped, choking on his own laughter.

 

“Well, I won't _be_ stolen,” Jon said firmly. “Every child in the North learns about Torrhen Stark, the King Who Knelt. He saw the dragons were coming, and he made the wise choice to surrender his crown to save his people. But he only did so because he had no defense against dragons. We do not fear them anymore, Queen Daenerys. You would attack us at your peril.”

 

The southerners' eyebrows shot up.

 

“Did you just threaten us, Jon Snow, son of Rhaegar?” asked Tyrion incredulously.

 

“That was no threat,” Sansa spoke up. “That was a warning, in case you were getting ideas.”

 

Daenerys looked angry. “Do you think that because you are a Targaryen, _my_ dragons will do your bidding? You will rue your foolishness, Aemon.”

 

“Come outside for a moment, your grace,” asked Lord Davos, always knowing when to diffuse a tense situation, “and all will be revealed.”

 

With suspicious faces, Queen Daenerys and her people followed the northerners outside the tent. They shivered at the sudden cold.

 

“Look to the sky,” advised Jon.

 

He would be looking at them, not the sky. He wanted them to see what the North could do if threatened. A raven landed on his shoulder.

 

“Now?” said the raven, shocking the queen's scribe. Lord Tyrion, who had met the Old Bear and his talking raven, did not even blink.

 

“Now,” Jon confirmed.

 

Within a few seconds, they heard a dragon's roar. Bran had told Jon via talking raven that the queen kept her dragons chained at the southern end of camp. In less than a minute, however, the three dragons were loose, and approaching the gathering. Jon noted with pride that his own people didn't flinch, though they had never seen the dragons before. Then again, they'd discussed how this conversation would go, so they had been prepared.

 

“They've escaped!” cried Daenerys, panicking and looking frantically for her dragon-keepers.

 

“No, your grace,” Jon soothed her. “Just watch.”

 

The dragons flew in a tight circle above them. As one, they let out a burst of flame, pointing straight up. Then, one by one, they landed, folded their wings, and lay as if they meant to sleep, eyes closed and legs tucked under.

 

“More?” piped the raven on Jon's shoulder.

 

“Let's take them back to where they were,” he told the raven.

 

As Daenerys and her people watched in awe, the dragons rose together, screeched loudly, and flew, single file, back to where they'd been eating their supper of cooked horse. Incredulous eyes turned to Jon.

 

“More?” said the raven again.

 

“No, that is enough for now,” Jon said. “Thank you, brother.”

 

“You really are a skinchanger!” Tyrion guessed.

 

“I am, but that wasn't my doing,” Jon explained. “I've only warged into Ghost so far. There are more wargs in the North, however; it's an old gift of the First Men, and Bran is the strongest living warg.”

 

Queen Daenerys' mouth had fallen open. There were rumors that she had struggled to control her dragons. It was obvious that whatever the bond was between a dragonrider and dragon, it did not allow for this level of control over the beasts.

 

“Your cousin was controlling Drogon _from Winterfell_ ,” said Daenerys, looking uncomfortable and possibly frightened. “And Drogon is bonded to _me_.”

 

“Now you understand why any attack on the North will fail,” Jon told her, proud that he'd kept his voice calm and not even a little boastful. “If you bring them North to help us, that will be welcome and very much appreciated. Bring them as weapons of war, and our wargs will turn your dragons on your own troops before you reach Moat Cailin.”

 

The eunuch's face had been enigmatic throughout, but Jon thought he detected a hint of respect now. The northerners could not quite hide their smiles behind stern faces.

 

“Do you see, your grace?” Tyrion spoke up, looking at Daenerys. “This is what we discussed earlier. Imagine what Euron Greyjoy might have done with this power, or my sweet sister. A Stark, even a Stark with Targaryen blood, wants naught but to be left alone, when given the ultimate weapon.”

 

“Why do all of this, then?” asked the queen, finally meeting Jon's eyes with her own purple ones. “You might have used your northern wargs to steal my dragons, kill me, and conquer all of Westeros, had you wanted it. You could have been Aegon the Conqueror reborn.”

 

Jon looked at her, disgusted at the very idea. “I am neither a thief nor a kinslayer,” he said finally. “I would rather leave the dragons to you, and have a willing ally, than steal dragons I know little about, and force them to fight for me. We have enough enemies to deal with, and as I've said: I _do not want_ the Iron Throne. I know it's a hard concept for southrons to grasp, but some of us have no use for that metal chair and the treachery that surrounds it.”

 

“Hear, hear,” said the Northern council, none more enthusiastically than Sansa.

 

Daenerys smiled up at him, having overcome her fears. She looked less unhappy, at least. “You are a good man, and an even better king,” she said, and Jon detected an almost sisterly pride in her voice. “I am honored to have you for a nephew, Aemon.”

 

“Jon,” he corrected. “Every time you say Aemon, Aunt, I feel the urge to look over my shoulder for Maester Aemon. I've been Jon Snow for so long, that I hardly know how to be an Aemon Targaryen.”

 

“Then you must call me Dany,” she replied. “And I will call you Jon Targaryen. You are a trueborn prince of Valyrian and First Men blood; you should not have to bear a bastard name. Your loyal Northmen may not care, but it will make a difference in the South.”

 

“I have no intention of going South to play at politics,” said Jon. “As long as I have the support of the North, my name makes no difference. The swampland of the Neck and the wargs will be our protection from southron ambitions, though your dragons would be useful in a fight against wights.”

 

“You shall have them. Between you, me, and Lord Bran, we will reduce the army of the Dead to ashes. I think Rhaegal or Viserion might accept you as a rider, and I will make sure we have enough dragonglass to kill the Others, even if I have to buy it from Asshai or Sothoryos.”

 

“Thank you, Aunt Dany,” Jon said, smiling at the silver-haired woman. “That is all we ask. The North is our home, and I will give all I have to defend it. Mayhaps after we defeat the Others, you will visit Winterfell as an honored guest. After all, you are family.”

 

For a moment, Jon thought he'd said something terribly wrong. His aunt's purple eyes filled with unshed tears.

 

“That's all I've ever wanted,” she said quietly. “A home. A true family.”

 

Jon saw her as she truly was then, a young, lonely ruler of squabbling southron lords. Forgetting his courtesies, his crown, and hers, he hugged her as he might have embraced Arya. She was so short that he could have placed his chin on top of her head if he wished. He didn't, because her golden crown had some sharp edges.

 

“I know I might seem ungrateful,” her murmured into her ear, “Your offer was generous. I just know where I belong, and it is not in King's Landing, mingling with Tyrells and Martells and Lannisters and septons. But I won't abandon you, Dany. My fathe—uncle used to say that when the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies but the pack survives. Your older brother married a she-wolf of Winterfell; that makes you part of our pack, if you want to be.”

 

Jon looked away then, and meet the curious gazes of his council and Dany's. Suregg and Tormund winked approvingly, while Sansa's face had gone blank.

 

“What?” asked Jon, using his best King in the North voice. “Have you never seen a nephew hugging his aunt before?”

 

“Not recently,” Tyrion replied brightly. “It's quite a sweet thing to watch, but we're all freezing our balls off while you do that. Now that you've shown us the power of the North, and the honor of the Starks, may we consider ourselves well and truly allied, your graces?”

 

“You may,” Dany told him, stepping away from Jon's embrace. “The Kingdom of the North will remain independent, but an ally at need. We will defend the Wall for all our sakes, and then we will return home to the South. I suppose we'll need proper winter garb for our men.”

 

“We'll provide as much as you need,” Sansa offered. “We have wool and furs to spare, and it is the least we can do in exchange for your men and supplies. We'll provide shoes, as well, or your knights of summer will be falling over in the snow.”

 

“Good,” replied Tyrion. “I'm not sure the Unsullied or the Dothraki have ever seen snow this deep. Neither have I, really.”

 

“We have not,” Grey Worm informed him. “But we will fight the White Walkers wherever they may be, Lord Tyrion.”

 

“Then we've said what must be said,” Jon told them. “I suggest we retire for now. Lord Davos and Lord Manderly will be happy to discuss figures and supply lists in more detail with your own people, Aunt Dany.”

 

“Very well,” Dany agreed. Then, with a mischievous glint in her purple eyes, she looked up at Jon. “Before you retire, would you like to meet my children properly?”

 

Jon took a deep breath. Excitement warred with caution in his mind.

 

“Lead on, Aunt,” he said at last.

 

He ordered Lady Brienne and Geisa to guard his sister, and followed the southron queen to the dragons' pen. Immediately, the black dragon came to sniff at his mother, and butt his enormous head against her hand. The white dragon looked up briefly, and went back to his meal, as though bored.

 

The third dragon was a different story. This one was moss-green, and he pinned his fierce bronze gaze on Jon. Slowly, the dragon approached.

 

“This is Rhaegal,” Dany said. “I named him after my brother. It seems only right that my brother's son should ride him.”

 

“How can you be sure?” Jon asked, feeling more than a little nervous in front of the beast. “He might look at me and see a Stark, and smell the direwolf on me.”

 

His aunt laughed. “If he didn't recognize the dragon blood in you, you would be dead already, or he would have scared you away. One of the Martells tried to steal him recently, and Rhaegal burned him to a crisp.”

 

Jon, who had been reaching slowly towards the dragon, froze with his hand in midair. Undaunted by his timidity, Rhaegal nudged his hand with his head, larger than a horse's.

 

“Oh, he likes you,” Dany commented, sounding relieved.

 

Jon petted the dragon a bit, feeling ridiculous. “Now what do I do?”

 

“While you're here, come and visit him often. Once you've bonded, he'll let you ride him. I'll have a saddle made up for you to match mine; those scales are not comfortable to sit on,” she admitted, and Jon laughed.

 

“That's something that I haven't seen in books about the Conquest,” he told her. “Aegon was brave and fierce and unstoppable on Balerion's back, but if he had saddle-sores on his arse, or scale-burn on his legs, no one said anything.”

 

The two Targaryens laughed at this.

 

“How does one wield a sword from dragon-back, anyway?” asked Daenerys. “There aren't many enemies you could reach from up there,” she pointed to Rhaegal's back. “Not that I know much of swordplay.”

 

“That's a good question,” admitted Jon, swinging an imaginary Longclaw carefully around the head of an invisible dragon. “A bow would be better, but I'm a much better swordsman than an archer,” he said honestly.

 

“Well,” Dany shrugged, “when we're fighting the undead, you'll need no weapon but Rhaegal's fire. Do you speak any High Valyrian?”

 

Jon shook his head. “It's not a necessary skill for Westerosi bastards at the Wall.”

 

“I'll have Missandei start teaching you immediately,” Daenerys decided. “You will need it to command Rhaegal, unless you can do that with your warging. The most important command you can give him, in battle, will be _dracarys_!”

 

Immediately, the green dragon moved away from Jon's hand, and shot out a burst of gold and green flames.

 

Jon stepped back in alarm. He'd been unprepared for the heat.

 

“I'll study the language,” he acquiesced. “All I know is a phrase Arya taught me when she came home from Braavos. _Valar morghulis_.”

 

“Of course,” Dany replied. “ _Valar morghulis, valar dohaeris_. But first, _valar_ _ē_ _drussis_ , even kings and queens.”

 

“What does that mean?”

 

“All men must sleep, Jon. We are both weary from travel, the days are short, and we have accomplished much already. Let us rest and continue in the morning.”

 

“Very well,” Jon agreed.

 

They returned to the tents in a companionable silence, arm in arm. When they'd reached the Queen's tent, Jon bid her goodnight and returned to the Stark tent. Inside, Sansa lay reading on the furs of the shared main chamber, curled up with Ghost for warmth. When he entered, his cousin looked up, dropping her book.

 

“My aunt gave me a dragon,” Jon told her, fighting a smile.

 

She blinked wordlessly. After riding all over the North together, Jon knew the signs that Sansa was about to fall over from exhaustion. Like Arya had done at a young age, she had stubbornly refused to go to sleep until Jon returned and shared his news, good or bad.

 

“Well done,” she said finally, fighting a yawn.

 

Jon took her hands and pulled her to her feet, then kissed her forehead. “Goodnight, Sansa. Go to bed.”

 

As she mumbled a reply, he left the main room for the smaller bedchamber attached to the side of their tent, which had plenty of hot bricks packed between his sleeping furs, and candles for light. Feeling lighter than he'd felt since returning to life at Castle Black, the King in the North fell into bed and slept peacefully.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There you go. I hope you enjoyed it, and please leave some feedback if you're so inclined. I have some more bits and pieces written in this same universe, but if I post them they'll be separate short fics within the Aemon the Dragonwolf series. Let me know if you're interested.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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